


Prompts Of Fantasticness II

by Jimlockian



Series: Prompts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angel Sherlock, Angst, Bodyswap, Child!Lock, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Multi, Pirate!lock, Possessive!Jim, Post Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt, Winglock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is a different story, written for prompts made by others - you guys are FANTASTIC! Rating is Explicit to cover eventualities! WARNINGS/RATINGS VARY CHAPTER TO CHAPTER!  Please read notes before each story!</p><p>8. John's Preference}   Johnlock vs Johniarty (Rated: Teen.. fluff, domestic)<br/>7. New Foundation}   Johnlock Wing!Lock (Rated: Mature: Suicide theme, suicide attempt, angst)<br/>6. Falling.. For You}   Johniarty RBF, minor Johnlock (Rated Mature: Canonical suicide references, kidnap, twisted relationship dynamics)<br/>5. Pirates Of The Thames}   Jimlock Pirate!lock (Rated Teen: Piracy)<br/>4. Chance Remuneration}   Johniarty Fortune Teller (Rated Mature: Suggestive content, implied smut)<br/>3. The New Boy}   Child!lock (Rated General; No warnings apply)<br/>2. I Know You Are But What Am I?}   Johnlock Bodyswap (Rated Teen; Weirdness, groping)<br/>1. My Bloody Valentine}   Johniarty Hurt/Comfort (Rated Teen; Fluff, minor angst, some possessive!Jim)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Bloody Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS & RATINGS VARY! Please read notes! Warnings change depending on the chapter as each chapter is a new story. This is for my usual length prompt stories (1-2.5K words). I accept prompts via [tumblr](http://jimlockian.tumblr.com/Prompt) (but you do not need a tumblr to send one), if you're interested please check it out!
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johniarty Injury prompt: Anonymous (Who are you? So many anonymouses, so much mystery!)  
> (Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: Fluffy comfort with a dollop of angst and possessive!Jim)  
> (See the end of the work for more notes)

The only noise is a soft continuous beep from the heart rate monitor a few feet away from him. Though by now he is so accustomed to it he barely notices. Then abruptly new sound flares up.

"Get the crash cart!" Calls a voice from off to the side. John does not hear it, still unconscious, but Jim does and it unsettles him. The flurry of sound nearby punctuates the air as the medical team races to save..

Someone. But luckily not John, who is banged up mightily but as the doctor said he would be fine, perfectly fine, just in a mess of pain. Honestly, it looked worse then it really was. All the bruises turning his skin nasty mottled colors.. An inhuman look came from an array of red, purple and yellow. Skin should never look like that.

“Quiet over there!” Jim snaps, turning around slightly though he barely takes his eyes off of John for a second. “Bloody NHS..” He grumbles to himself, saying it loudly enough for them to hear him though most are too busy working the paddles and shouting clear to pay Jim any heed.

John's doctor said the broken arm would heal normally as long as John looked after himself. The bone had broken through the skin when Jim's man had twisted it. Now, though, it is set, wrapped in a cast, cleaned of blood. Repackaged, good as new.

That hulking figure returns to his mind and Jim's hand clenches in the scratchy cotton bed sheets. His hand is inches from John's not broken arm, which has one finger bound up too. Jim's eyes rest on the tiny little cast, no more then a splint really, and he gingerly swipes the pad of his index finger down it. He goes no further.

Jim feels enraged, the likes of which he has never felt before.

John had been dosed with anesthetic upon arrival, but it has been in the end stages of wearing off. He had shifted once in bed earlier, driving Jim to sit up in complete attentiveness, but John had not woken up. This time when he moves his body, his eyes flutter too. John lets out a long groan as he rises from the depths of slumber.

Jim sits up like a prairie dog coming up out of the ground, eyes wide. "John?"

John grumbles a weak "Mhmm." He tries to stretch, only to feel more than remember the prior events. One eye opens, the other is swollen closed from a black eye.

"You're alright John." The devil in Westwood sits to his side like any other visitor, but it is the fact that Jim is the one waiting that gets an attempt at a smile from John.

His face hurts too badly to complete a smile, even talking is an effort. It feels like his jaw is broken, but he knows from the lack of equipment around his face that this is not actually the case. "Sherlock okay?" John strains to whisper.

"Shh!" Jim snaps with more force then he intended to. Really he wants John to save his strength, but it does come off looking like he hissed at the mere mention of Sherlock..

Truthfully he hates John's affinity for the man that is his arch enemy. It still sits in his gut like nausea whenever John brings up Sherlock, and now John took all this pain - for Sherlock.

Oh does Jim hate Sherlock even more now. He never would have thought that hate could grow, but watching John struggle drives him beyond loathing. The most spurned woman in the world and the harshest degraded man could have combined their angers and still not met the fury that he now feels building for Sherlock-bloody-Holmes.

This is Sherlock's fault.

Not Jim's.

Jim's men may have played the game according to old rules, but Sherlock could have saved John. It is not Jim's fault John stepped in to save Sherlock instead, but Sherlock's fault for letting it happen.. So the real target escaped without a scratch, while his precious was left burdening the attack. Sherlock came back fast enough to bring John to the hospital but he had not realized until John was badly hurt.

"He's fine." Jim replies tersely as John tries to look at him to get more information. He will not have the injured man expending more of his voice on that pale, lanky bastard. Not when John has already given him so much.

"It's his fault, John." Jim scathingly declares, that bitter hate seeping from every syllable. He leans forward, palms flattening on the firm mattress. "That was meant for Sherlock."

"Jim..." John begins hoarsely, causing a wordless, worried murmur to resound in Jim's throat. John ignores it and pushes on, "You.. Gotta stop..."

"John, we discussed this." Jim replies with a stiff clipped voice. "You're with me now.” He has said that so often that the words are stamped inside the back of his skull with tattooed permanence. Jim continues on unabated, “I can hate Sherlock and adore you at once."

The look in John's eye is imploring, and given his face's bruised state it is a sorrowful visage to find himself looking upon. The painkillers are working away within his system, stemming many of John's aches but not all, and Jim can see it in his expression.

Jim lifts and waves a dismissive hand, as if the problem can be breezed through with more of his fanciful dramatist act. "Those responsible will be dealt with. I assure you of that." He reaches for his jacket pocket, where his mobile phone has been resting (for the first time since buying it Jim has turned it off).

John lifts his hand, the one with a single little wrap around his finger. He flinches with the effort and Jim immediately chides him, "John!"

"No." John rasps out before taking a breath. His voice is only a touch decisive, but that is all he needs to manage to make his point. "Not for me."

"They disobeyed me." Jim snaps half heartedly. It is difficult to argue with that injured half stare from John bearing down on the normally insurmountable man.

“No.” John repeats with as much conviction as his voice can muster, which is still weak but it makes the effect all the less palatable and thus more effective.

“I said be quiet over there!” Jim snaps, standing and turning to glare at the nearest figure for three seconds. He turns around and sinks back down into the visitor's chair. “We can talk about this later.”

“This is mad.. and destructive.” John manages, the words low from the effort. “You'll.. kill us all someday.”  
  
“Not you, never you.” Jim assures with a firm gaze before he looks the figure up and down in the hospital bed. “Maybe Sherlock, maybe even myself, but never you John.”  
  
John's gaze truly does bear down on his heart now. “Then what will.. I have left?”  
  
Damn that man, damn him for being so wonderful and large hearted. Damn him for being brave and selfless. Damn him for being the only average seeming man able to see the big picture in everything. Damn Jim most of all, for loving this man.

Jim Moriarty bends forward and kisses John's forearm where his skin is clear of injuries. Slowly he lets his lips up, but cannot find it in himself to look away. He leans his forehead gently against John's arm, not putting any pressure on it, but feeling the man. Jim gets a slight whiff of John's scent off his skin.

For a while Jim stays there against John's arm, feeling the tiniest bit uncertain for the first time since he has started dating John. There is nothing said or done until John speaks again.

"When we play doctor... You'll have to.. Be the doctor.." John struggles through pain in his jaw, but it is worth every flinch to watch Jim's head perk back up.


	2. I Know You Are But What Am I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bodyswap Johnlock prompt: MoriArti  
> (Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: Weirdness, groping..)
> 
> I think this is a bit less smutty than desired, but once I started it I was more into the mentality of the two over them groping each other, but I still worked that in. Hope it suits! (I found this hard to fathom as well, it made my brain almost explode, hence why the reason they are bodyswap is never explained, but I shall never refuse a prompt if possible!!)

Honestly, John cannot remember what has happened.. All he knows is that above him is a white ceiling, and he is stretched on his back on a hard floor, probably wood. It does not feel like concrete or stone.. His head is not aching, so the doctor rationalizes his unconsciousness is unlikely to be from a blow..

Which is usually what happens when someone hits him during a chase. He and Sherlock get caught up in so many of them with their dangerous lifestyle, but John would not change that for the world – he loves it, though not as much as he loves Sherlock. Although, come to think of it, that is his ceiling up there – the ceiling of 221b..

So he is in the flat. Odd to pass out of the floor of his own flat – he does not drink that hard, and if he had.. where is the headache?

John sets his hands on the floor and slowly sits up, noticing that his hands feel bigger. He looks down and is confused to see thinner, longer digits and an elegant palm. Shades lighter than his own skin, too. As John takes in what his eyes seem to be fooling him with he realizes that his legs are longer too. They feel thinner, and my god, has someone gotten rid of his slightly pudgy stomach? John runs one of those rather gorgeous palms down his

Alright, clearly something ridiculous like this could not have happened and John is simply dreaming. That is the only logical solution for finding himself in the body of some sexy...

Finally it dawns on him that there, at the edge of his feet, is.. himself? He is looking at his own unconscious visage.

 _Am I dead?_ A wave of panic hits John, twisting him to the core. Maybe this is what happens when you die – maybe he is in his hunky afterlife form. Aren't they supposed to be ethereal though, and not.. so fleshy?

Immediately he switches into doctor mode, crawling the meager distance to get to his own body for an examination. His finger curls around his own neck and a wave of relief hits at the light throb of a pulse. So he is not dead after all.. Then what?  
  
John shakes himself, finding it a peculiar experience to watch his own lifeless looking figure slowly stir back to life. After a fidget or two he gets to watch himself open his dark eyes, and swallows thickly at the panic he sees within the brown orbs.

Other-John pushes real John off his body and propels himself to slide backward with his feet. He scrambles to sit up, seeming ungainly. The newly woken man stares quizzically at John, mouth parted slightly.

 _This is bloody madness_ , thinks John.

“Have I taken a hallucinogenic?” Inquires this Other-John with a strange mix of perplexity and annoyance in a lower voice than John tends to use, but still nonetheless it is his own. He does not seem as floored by the experience as John.  
  
“Me? I mean you?” John stumbles to answer properly, getting a bit confused talking to.. himself. But he does not sound like himself at all. His voice is lower, a bit softer, and his a gorgeous thick dose of masculinity... He sounds like Sherlock.

The Other-John is looking down at himself, lifting limbs apart and pulling at his jumper with a wry expression. Suddenly John notices that his own clothes are a bit too formal for his usual – a casual suit.. Feeling a nervous epiphany niggling in the back of his mind he stands and rushes to bathroom to look at the mirror.

Bright blue-gold eyes greet him. Gorgeous sculpted cheekbones on either side of his face like framing. Pinker lips. Waves of twirling ebony.. He's Sherlock Holmes. He has become his lover.

John leans against the sink and looks down into it to avoid the bewildered look on the detective's face – his face. He breathes deeply. “I'm John Watson.” John cringes at the words coming from Sherlock's voice. He knows who he is though and he is NOT Sherlock Holmes.

 _Have I taken a hallucinogenic.._ The words of his doppelganger come back to him, and suddenly an awful thought strikes – if he, John Watson, is now Sherlock Holmes, then maybe...

John turns and books it into the living room. By now other-John has risen to his feet and, oddly, has gone into the kitchen and started making tea. John finds it disturbing to watch himself from behind, _is that how my arse really looks?_

Other-John scowls at the tea pot and his inability to make tea. The soft exhalation brings real John back out of his thoughts. Tentatively he asks, “Sherlock?”

Other-John turns round with a raised brow. “I don't talk to hallucinations of myself.” He turns back around, intending to give himself the cold shoulder until whatever narcotic or toxin that has taken hold of his mind wears off. Other-John really is Sherlock Holmes!

* * *

  
  
An hour later.....  
  
“I'm satisfied.” Sherlock finally concedes. It has taken quite an effort.. first to convince Sherlock that he actually exists, and then to prove that he is John, despite being stuck in Sherlock's body. This slow road is taken by recalling things that only the two of them know, which is easy given the plethora of oddity in their lives. Even with John pulling things that he never blogged about, Sherlock finds many ways to poke holes in John being the real John. It is an impressive display of ir-rationalization, one that soon grows old. John scowls, grumbles and curses a little until Sherlock is assured that it is John himself.

“Will you take that expression off my face John? It's very unsettling.” Sherlock turns away with a scoff, and John finds it equally disturbing to hear his voice curl in a posh way around those words. Sherlock is making him sound like such a prat.

“Looking at me – at you,” John corrects, feeling frustrated. “With that blank expression is no picnic either..” This is idiotic, this is madness, but this is still happening. “We should be focusing on getting back to normal from.. whatever did this.” He gestures hopelessly down to his (Sherlock's) body, glancing down the pale expanse dressed up in a suit. He feels jealous of Sherlock's body, lighter, taller, and with the figure of a model. “Besides, I should think you'd like to look at yourself even if you're usually more into your intellect.” John remarks of his flatmate's well known arrogance. “I woke up and thought I had died.”  
  
“My body is that horrific?” Sherlock remarks dryly, his attitude soured by their situation. He ought know better after all the bedroom praise John has given him.  
  
“No I mean I woke up and thought I was an angel.” John replies, before he realizes how that sounds. Not sounds out of his mouth, because those words coming from Sherlock are just weird, but in his head it did not sound like such a compliment... A slight pink flush starts to climb over those perfect jaws.

Sherlock is looking at him curiously, though it is still far less reserved than he would imagine he looks with that expression. Finally he takes his eyes off John's body (his own) and replies, “I have a bony figure.”  
  
“You're such a prat.” John mutters, unbuttoning the detective's shirt and pulling it apart to display the milky white skin. “If you can't be satisfied with this..” He catches sight of intrigue mixed with something John cannot quite place; Trying to read emotions on his own face is more difficult than reading them off a stoic.

“Or this..” Continues John-trapped-in-Sherlock's-body, lifting his hands and cupping both shapely cheekbones. The peculiar feeling of stroking something he knew as an outsider, and now feeling it as himself, makes his eyes widen.

John's shaft, which is really Sherlock's shaft, which for the most part John has ignored, gains a bit of life and draws his attention. The blush on John's face intensifies, causing Sherlock to perk to brighter attention. As odd as it is to watch John get aroused while it looks like he himself it getting aroused, it is intriguing – Sherlock rarely displays that much breadth and depth of emotion, and he could have never imagined watching himself blush, but now he is.

John desperately wants to smack that smug look off Sherlock's – or his face, really. It seemed difficult to fathom, smacking himself, but now he has the urge in full.

“Will you stop? It's hard enough to look at myself, without you adding.. that expression.” John snipes at him in embarrassment.

“John, I have told you how much I prefer you as you are..” Sherlock decides to prove his point with actions over words. Sometimes his logic seems to go over John's head, but a display never seems to go amiss. So he lifts the blue striped jumper over his head, getting John's chest bare.

John is sure he has never smirked in the way that Sherlock is now doing with his face. The detective-in-his-blogger's-body lifts his now thicker, rougher hands and runs them from hips to collarbone, slowly. He is purposefully dragging out the movement. “Soft and grippable..” Sherlock drops John's voice down another octave, “You're adorablely plush, John.”

With a tentative step John edges toward the man that now looks exactly like him, but in reality is his lover. For a strange moment he stares into his own eyes, now find it a bit harder to do so. John takes his own hands into the lengthy soft ones he now has and squeezes them. It feels odd but not as uncomfortable – like wearing over sized mittens outside, he is still warm but a little out of place.

“Sherlock..” A thick lump wells up in his throat. It seems like the misty fog is rolling back and finally he realizes what holds them back. “We're both so..” John leans forward and rests his dark curled forehead against the strange firm weight that is his own shoulder, having to bend down to do so. “So.. down on ourselves, but we praise the other to the moon and back.”

Sherlock fixes him with a strange look – John's not quite sure he has ever made such a face in his life. Scrunched a little, eyes sharp and a touch wild. Maybe he is not attractive, per say, but he definitely works his body better then Sherlock can.

“Maybe we should touch ourselves until we gain a better acceptance?” Sherlock takes the scientific route to solving their little problem, well, their emotional problem anyway.  
  
John begins to blush harder, driving a ruby color over that pale face with such ease. He lets go of Sherlock's hands and drops his down, feeling that 'plush' stomach as Sherlock calls it. With a tentative glance upward he catches an infinitesimal smile on his own – no, on Sherlock's face. Then his hands graze lower, along the outside of his own trousers, and those brown eyes he has stared into every day while standing at the mirror now haze over slightly. John begins to lean in with a kiss to his own lips.

Perhaps his body is a little bit adorable.. his face maybe.. he will at least give Sherlock the chance to show him, while he worships his lofty angel.  


	3. The New Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Child!lock prompt: Another Anonymous
> 
> (Rating: General  
> Warnings: Adorableness)

If you're a foolish teacher you might call him Jimmy – but James has always preferred Jim. Short, to the point, yet an elegant sound. Some make the mistake but in his second year of primary school this is to be expected. He is a rather lonely little boy compared to his peers, who have circles of friends.

Jim likes to be alone because the other children never seem to play with him for long, and he has grown tired of trying to make them see things as he does. 'Does not play well with others' has appeared on notes home more than once.

Yet for all the lonely time had by the little boy with light brown hair, he does notice others. Dislike, disinterest, yes, but not ignorance. He keeps track of the other students and when an older child is put in their class Jim notices right away.  
  
He is difficult to ignore – a taller boy with stretching cheekbones that bring pretty curves to his face when he smiles. Sherlock does not smile as much as the other children, and Jim likes that.  
  
As the day goes on he notices more interesting points about the new boy – his favorite is the dark hunting scene Sherlock creates with fingerpaints. It makes the teacher turn pale as Sherlock explains the causation of the image and is put away for his mother to see. Jim thought it was the most interesting picture he had ever seen in his whole life.  
  
Come naptime he had formed a new resolution – to make Sherlock be his friend.

* * *

 

After the daily ritual that is naptime they get to head out to the playground for a nice physical break. Most of the children split up into groups as they shuffle outside. Many run out the door in order to get their place on a swing or slide.

Jim does not join the surge, and he is pleased to see the boy with hair like night does not rush either. The shorter boy trails after his target, who plucks up a stick and takes it to swirl designs in a bare patch of dirt among the grass.

Coming up behind him there is nothing more appealing than the dark looping curls that lie against the other boy's head. Jim reaches out and tugs a chubby fistful of them, smirking when Sherlock cries out, startled and in pain. He turns and glares at Jim.

That only makes Jim frown, who wanted Sherlock's attention but expected a better reaction. Disgruntled, Jim lifts his leg and kicks Sherlock in the shin. “You're going to be MY friend!”

“No, I'm not!” Bellows the older boy with a commanding sharpness. He pouts his now flushed lips at Jim and turns away, walking off slightly bent over so that he can massage the aching leg.

Another boy shyly walks over and asks Sherlock if he is alright. The little lad is a pudgy thing, all baby fat and dimpled cheeks. His blond bob-cut is old fashioned, yet fits his cherubim cheeks. The shy blond named John tells Sherlock that he thought his designs in the sand were brilliant. John vocalizes the compliment that Jim was trying to get out in a physical way, succeeding where Jim had failed.  
  
After a few moments Sherlock offers to let John draw with him. He breaks the stick in half and hands it to his new friend.

They are only a few yards away, so Jim can hear them perfectly. Inside his blood boils with the most rage he has ever felt. That is his friend. Acting on his emotions he stomps over, and firmly kicks the blond in the middle of his bottom, sending him toppling into the dirt.

That's what he gets for stealing Jim's friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got the playground, the hair pulling, and I decided to add John... because he would be so adorable!


	4. Chance Remuneration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johniarty Fortune Teller Prompt from: R  
> (Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: Suggestive content, Smut implied)
> 
> Sorry for the excessive wait, R! Not sure why this gave me so much trouble to write, but here it is!

 Jim Moriarty is waiting for a particular person to enter his yurt. He needs to give the right fortune to unsettle one of his targets – an idea that will slowly niggle its way out of the man's mind until he is driven to do what Jim wants. Guns do not make the underworld what it is, his mind does, and no weapon can possibly compare to what he can do with that infernal intellect.

Though, this little game of psychological warfare is a bit unusual, even for Moriarty. It is his first time posing as a fortune teller, and he does not like the task. Indeed, the curly wig is a bit hot after being on for so long, and the gaudy coins hanging from his head scarf are a bit irksome with their clattering together, but it is all worth it.

There is no end to what Jim can put up with when he sees a long term payoff.. Besides, he does not think any of his underlings have the proper finesse required for this job. Jim knows what a stunning actor he can be, a talent born from knowing that all the world is, indeed, a stage.

Putting up with it is precisely what he is doing – already he has told six boring fortunes, getting more disgusted with each passing person. The same stupid spiel about wealthy fortunes and attractive future mates satiates the lot of them.

The entrance flap rustles and Jim adjusts the silk veil across his mouth, getting settled for more of the same. Instead he has to force his eyes not to widen as in comes none other than John Watson, aka Sherlock's lapdog.

Well this is unexpected to say the least. Suddenly the boredom dissipates like smoke with a fan flicked on. Jim inclines his head in a respectful greeting with his air of mystique in full swing, his scarf tinkling with the movement.  
  
“Afternoon,” Greets John, sitting down at the small round table across from Moriarty in disguise. He had jaunted down to the fair for a bit of amusement, and thought for a quid or two it might be worth a laugh to hear his fortune. Not that he believes in that sort of thing, but John is in for some good spirits and cheap thrills tonight.  
  
With a practiced air that belies his true inexperience at his trade, Jim twists his palm in a fanciful move that is little more than an elegant finger twirl while turning one's hand over exaggeratedly. Palm face up for the payoff, again to keep up with the appearance of a legitimate fortune teller.  
  
“Yes, right..” John reaches into his pocket and pulls out a five pound note as per the instructions written on the sign outside. He smiles rather jauntily, the cheer within his teeth and eyes hitting Jim in that moment.

Then Jim Moriarty realizes that he has never been face to face with John before. For the first time he gets a good look at John, and Jim rather likes that cute curvature along his jaws and chin, the pale lips ready to melt into his face, his dark from afar eyes, and those caressable curves like a combed calf's tail.

Jim pockets the fiver and gives what he believes to be a mystical wave of his hands, inclining his head and peering into the crystal ball. Knowing that John is not terribly familiar with him, Jim thinks about how to skew his accent to disguise himself. A little lower register is achieved. “I see a tall, dark haired handsome man..”

John nearly chuckles but holds it in politely. It does come off sounding like such a pile of tripe straight from a feel good movie, but the fortune teller is into his trade, and John is in it for the amusement anyway. What is said next does make his pupils pop though..

“In your present and future.. A remarkably smart man. A peculiar man...” Jim smirks under the veil, twiddling his nimble digits as if manipulating the smoke within the fake glass ball. “I see much happiness behind and ahead of you..”

He has to take in a moment to stare intensely into the crystal ball to stop himself from getting too silly. John is suddenly vigilant, sitting up in his chair with a slightly dropped lip. It is a tad too much for Jim to lay on at once and he knows it, but this chance seems too good to pass up. “Yet there is a greater man... bent to destroy yours..” Jim whispers the last line for maximum effective, because John's hand has started to tremble on the table.  
  
Looking up and actually seeing John's distress at the startlingly accurate fortune, that acts on his innermost fear of losing Sherlock, is not as thrilling as imagining it had been. Jim is disappointed and mentally kicks himself as he opens his mouth, “Until the handsome figure returns to you.. And your happiness is sealed.”  
  
“That's creepily, um, kind of close. He's my flatmate.” John tacks that on out of a need to explain himself though he cannot be sure why. It almost feels like he knows this fortune teller, but of course he could not.. A blush flares up on John's face and Jim is drawn back to noticing the beauty he has hidden under all that normality.

Suddenly Jim is hit with the thought that John has prettily shaped ears – the kind he likes to suck on. He bats his mascara thickened lashes and waves away the judgmental expectations from John. That little movement clears the apprehension brought on by Jim's eerily accurate fortune.  
  
“But before that... you will meet another man whose mouth will carry you to orgasm with the force of crashing into the atmosphere.” John has no idea who he is, and if Jim wants to go for broke then Jim will with full enthusiasm. “You'll have fierce sex with him – and if you haven't figured it out yet - him is me.” Jim bats his lashes again, intrigued by the baffled stare and pleased that the man has not jumped up and walked out immediately.  
  
That lack of refusal is more then enough to drive Jim to stand and lean over, lifting his veil slightly with his hand while bending across the table to press his lips to John's in a spirited kiss.

When he pulls back, Jim simply winks at the dazed expression in John's willing eyes. “Come on in the back..” Purrs Jim, ready to guide John through beaded curtains and into an erotic kind of debauchery.

John stands up, willing to follow. The man has always been bisexual, he has just not acted on it in years. Now he has reason to want to again, from this exotic combination of sexy and strange. John's not sure why he adores the unusual so much, and he misses the flares of danger that Jim is sending out – but they attract John, even if he is blind to them.  
  
Jim pushes John through the curtain, chuckling while throwing his arms around John's neck to embrace him.

“Leave the veil on.”


	5. Pirates Of The Thames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimlock Pirate!lock prompt: Anonymous   
> (Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: Pirate action!)

The rickety old ship is under a slow going current. It looks ready to hit the ocean floor at any moment, though the sails are a fine looking, clearly newer, piece of work. Barnacles line the hull like small craters, each a badge of honor bestowed in some far away port.   
  
As the merchant ship pulls up alongside the older floating jerry-rig of a ship they wave a flag of peace. The Captain has decided to offer the clearly distressed ship some aid. Thus his crew lie ready to come alongside, standing by the railings and watching the view of the other ship.  
  
The nearer they get, the more they realize.. This is not a merchant ship. The presence of age is manufactured by tar along the ropes and staining over the wood. This is not an in need vessel. The skull and cross bones has simply not been raised.

Then the men jump aboard with the glint of swords and sparkle of disaster in their dark crazed eyes. Their enemy is lost.

* * *

  
“Everything moves to our favor, even the wind, sir.” Remarks the first mate with an official looking salute. He speaks not to the Captain, but to the ship's overseer – Sherlock Holmes.   
  
The merchant vessel is small, but that yields it a certain swiftness. Still, it is weighed down by the hefty distended bottom crafted to hold its excess cargo. A truly remarkable ship for those transporting different goods to the far corners of the sea.

“Ship off starboard stern, sir!” Calls a man looking out with a spyglass, his sharp eye spotting the far off image. Suddenly there is a great deal more hustle on deck. Merchant ships are often under attack for the goods they carry. The Captain runs out half their guns to be prepared.

The distant ship maintains its course, heading not quite for them but close enough. It travels quickly for its size, and this worries the Captain and first mate. Their concern makes Sherlock finally take notice of the ship. He steps aside and silently curses his elder sibling.

* * *

 

 

The reach of the enemy canons is greater from a far larger angle, so they can maneuver with ease. Few of the merchant vessel's shots land on the opposite ship who waits until the last moment to raise the pirate flag. The sad fact of the matter is that their canons are just no match for the dastardly ship flanking them.

By then everyone on board already knew it was coming.

The crew and Captain argue it out as the pirates draws near, with grappling hooks and long planks in hand. They have two minutes before being boarded, maximum. That time is wasted arguing over putting up the white flag or not. Their ship is a racer in its own category, but not outside of comparison with other cargo towing vessels – definitely no match for the pirates' sleek ship.

Below Sherlock hurriedly tries to find a way to extend the damage the canons are capable of. His modifications are not enough, and they are too late. Before the midnight haired man realizes it he has two men on either side of him, dragging him away. Sherlock thrashes against them and tries to fight, but with a third pirate coming down on him with two free fists he cannot help but succumb.

Sherlock Holmes is set apart from the crew because, quite simply, he is well dressed; An embellished gray jacket full of swirling design, flourished billowing white shirt, with steam ironed breeches, white tights and black shoes with polished square buttons. Instead of fighting him the pirate corral him and drag him to their Captain, throwing Sherlock down before the man.

While on his way down to his knees all Sherlock had seen of the Captain was a wide brimmed hat, a black velvet piece with rounded edges and curvature to the edges. Thick plumes of fanciful fake feathers and real peacock feathers combined to make it a grand spectacle of headgear. The image obscuring the face of the wearer, even to the normally observant eye of Sherlock Holmes.

Now, kneeling, he could see a white silk underlining in the hat, starkly contrasting the dark sweat-ridden locks of its wearer. What an impression the eyes of that man left on Sherlock, who thought he had seen and met every type of person under the sun. It is not a cruel or nefarious glint, it is the expanse of life within those eyes that stirs him to stare up.  
  
“What've we here?” Mused the Captain softly, looking upon Sherlock as if finding a lost kitten in a big city; Bemused yet deploring the sight of him.  
  
“That is our overseer!” Answers the first mate from a position juxtapose the pirate Captain. He also has the tip of a sword in his back. He squeaked out quickly, “The younger brother of one of Her Majesty's great servants.”

“Ah..” A nod comes from the Captain who can garner much from that sentence – in this world the eldest has full glory in both deed and family title. The younger must make their own way, or cling to the scraps offered by his parents or siblings under their moral familial obligations.

“See here, we are under the duty of the Governor and Company of Merchants of London Trading into the East Indies!” Cries the Captain of the merchant ship, only to be jabbed in the side and sent sprawling. He is in fact lucky to have not ended up stuck and bloody.

“Just for that I should kill you.” Mutters the pirate Lord, scowling and twisting his face into a grimace as if irritated with himself for not drawing blood upon the squawking man. Bureaucracy matters little to Captain Moriarty. “I run my destiny – for my own profit.”

He glares down at Sherlock's curious eyes before looking to his crew, “Scour every level and take whatever isn't bolted down.” They snapped to obey his command, swarming across the merchant ship while a few kept the corralled crew up on deck.

Sherlock finds that there is an elegance to the sweep of the pirate's hand much like an artist's grace. Instead of a heinous criminal, as he has imagined pirates to be, this one looks like a maestro crafting a perfect symphony - one that happens to be made of unadulterated crime.

“Take them,” Moriarty waves one hand and the yeoman Sherlock's elder brother has hired are hauled off.

Yet Sherlock finds himself more interested in this rather clean shaved pirate, minus the sparsest of facial hair. His eyes remind the man of a collie he once had as a boy; an untamed intelligence.

There is a peculiar gift that Sherlock has – a gift of observation. Mostly it has been kept to himself, for many folk still believe in harsh magic and witchcraft, the likes of which get lives burned down. Sherlock hid his talent of a sharp eye usually, but now he flares it to life to spy upon Captain Moriarty. A great man once in less dubious service, now in his thirties he works for his own pleasure. The work appears to agree with him, so far as Sherlock can surmise, and though he is a hard hand to be under he leads his crew to prosper. Sherlock can see in his eyes more than anywhere else that Moriarty would overturn any crewmate to propel himself, yet he still wants to know the man.  
  
“What of you?” Inquires the Captain, who may have spied Sherlock looking so intently upon him with his bright eyes. The Captain now turning his attention fully with a raise of his brows. “You appear as a man who wastes his life under the sun until his bones bleach.” With a murmur he takes on a teasing voice, “Pity with that complexion.”  
  
“I appear as a man trying to keep busy.” Sherlock parries back with a silver tongue.  
  
“Is your brother very healthy?” Inquires the Captain with the faintest of quipping smug airs. He knows that second sons are only valuable if the first – the heir – is lost.

As if parroting his face, Sherlock raises up a slightly bushier brow. “You must be bored to engage in this banter.”  
  
“Bored? To the contrary.” Captain Moriarty speaks to him as an equal in a manner that should be repugnant, but instead Sherlock is charmed by his brashness. “The sea is the perfect place for a wild life.” Moriarty murmurs, closing the distance between them with a blossoming smirk. “You can join these rapscallions,” A sweeping gesture toward the enemy ship is made before it is brought back, and Captain Moriarty almost sneers at him, “.. or return to your pigeon holed life.”

Sherlock surveys him for so long that the Captain draws in a breath. The man is considering it carefully, while also making some powerful deductions – from what he sees he can extrapolate the life it might be. A life of plunder and excitement. Instead of a verbal response he removes his hat and gives a sweeping bow. The elegance a respectful greeting to his new Captain, because in his eyes Sherlock also saw interest from the peculiar pirate – in him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was vague and seemed most interested with their meeting so I have limited myself to that scenario. This is almost like a nice first chapter though.


	6. Falling... For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johniarty prompt for: Hachimitsulemon  
> In which Jim wants John, so he ruins Sherlock, but brings him back after he cannot take watching John grieve. I took this prompt in a Post-RBF vein, but if that was not your intention and it makes you dislike the result of your prompt please comment as such and I will give this another go!
> 
> (Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: Fake suicide references, kidnap, some twisted relationship dynamics)

 When everything began it was about mind over matter – their thoughts could shape the outcomes of world events, forming the path lives would walk forever (or, ending those lives, as the case may be). Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes have to duel for they are the only ones capable of sparring with other another. They are one of the strangest couplings on the planet.

Although, Sherlock's harmonious relationship with Doctor John Watson did equal their odd head-to-head affair in that respect. A wholly remarkable man with an anachronistic mind of unequal proportion living and working in perfect sync with a bland man without distinction apart from perhaps his military career. Jim Moriarty was not impressed by such things though.  
  
 _The first time Jim saw John's picture he had looked down and outright laughed that Sherlock Holmes – the great brain of Scotland Yard – was associating with such a base piece of manhood. He shook the picture between his fingertips, lifting his eyes to his solid-shouldered right hand gunman, “Really, Sebastian? This must be a joke.”_  
  
 _“No, Sir. This is Doctor John Watson, and he appears to be Sherlock Holmes' new flatmate.” Replies his trusted minion with a stoic air, unhampered by Jim's delight at the news. Nothing could make less sense than this turn up, but he did so love variations. It made things interesting..._

He was, however, impressed by John over time. The man seemed to grow on him the longer Jim watched from the shadows. Before he knew it time spent thinking of John not only equaled time spent plotting against Sherlock, but surpassed it.

So, of course, he had to get to John on a deeper level. The answer seemed simple enough – wrest away the one thing taking up so much of John's ample time and affection...

_The images appearing on his phone had made Jim seethe more then a little, knowing that John was exposed to Sherlock in a sheet. Sherlock in a sheet for goodness sake! The man was an unparalleled gem, but he had no right in Jim's eyes to go anywhere with John in a sheet._   
  
_That should have been him wrapped in Egyptian silk beside John. Not Sherlock._

_When they went to Dartmoor and shared a room together it should have been Jim who watched John sleep. Not Sherlock._

Sherlock Holmes just had to go. There was nothing to it, nothing personal. Well, alright, it was _personal_ but not because of the pale detective. Jim Moriarty set up the events of the fall without much care as to doing anything more then ruining Sherlock in John's eyes.  
  
The problem was that months later John remained loyal to Sherlock. Even while the world continued to disgrace him, John Watson proclaimed Sherlock's inner hero to any who would listen. Knowing that his fellow consultant had faked his death as much as Jim had, the criminal could not burst in on John without triggering Sherlock to appear and spoil everything before Jim could have his say. After all, the man dropped off the face of the earth to protect John on Moriarty's word alone; Jim did not doubt for a second that he was the not only one watching John.

Jim wanted to go to John and claim him now that Sherlock was out of the way, but the militant man seemed utterly despondent. Too far gone to focus on anything other than his work, which was a poor outlet for his sorrow. John had trouble once Jim took Sherlock away...

_“More?” Questions Jim with a deep frown settling in on his normally becoming features. Creases line his forehead as he stares at the CCTV stills of John Watson bent over, tears pricking his eyes. The image caught through the window of his practice, when the man had a private moment in his day._   
  
_“You did say notify us whenever he was in a poor way.” Sebastian replies with dutiful precision, quoting every word Jim had himself said._   
  
_Jim nods slightly and lightly massages the photograph with his thumb while staring at the tight expression clouding the handsome rounded face of a man he has grown to adore from afar. His eyelids half close. “Are there more?”_

_“Six in the past forty-eight hours.” Sebastian answers while removing the images displaying those six moments from a manila folder. He watches Jim begin to mirror the noble doctor's emotion as he looks from picture to picture._  
  
 _“That's enough.” Jim waves a hand to dismiss him and Sebastian nods. “Leave me.” The slighter man slouches down into his chair, leaning more to one side as his gaze remains on those portraits of sorrow. John could not accept him if he has grown miserable, and Jim is loathing these more and more frequent updates._  
  
So he did the only thing he could when heart beat out the force of the mind – Jim Moriarty resolved to find Sherlock Holmes and bring him to John to restore the balance he had toppled.

* * *

 

John Watson has a slight curve to his spine as he mounts the stairs to 221b once more, feeling lonesome after yet another month without Sherlock Holmes cluttering up his days. There is so much more time now, just so much more empty time. The Yard does not bother to seek him out for his advice because he cannot see things as Sherlock does. He was the blogger, not the consultant detective.

Sometimes Greg Lestrade stops in and they share a drink and a few words, but that is the last he has heard of from anyone on the force. It's out of kindness more than anything else, but John likes it just the same. Truthfully, he feels bland having dropped back into an empty world without his best friend. It feels worse than returning to civilian life had felt because the gaping hole left behind is in his heart, not his head.

So when John walks in and lifts his murky honey colored eyes to the sight of Sherlock Holmes, a bit lankier and worse for wear, bound and gagged on the floor with Jim Moriarty lounging on the couch holding the skull that normally resided on the mantelpiece, John drops the bag of groceries he has been carrying up. A jar broke and something wet sloshed out against the bottom of his loafers, but John did not notice. He could not take in anything that was not the sight of Sherlock and Moriarty.  
  
“There you are, John..” Murmurs Jim in the most genuinely amicable voice John has ever heard him use. He looks up calmly, as if waiting around for John was a part of some routine, expecting the man home any time. There is no knowing how long he has been there. John does not care though, because Sherlock is lying on the floor and he is alive. Bound and gagged is secondary to being alive.  
  
John rushes to them and sinks to his knees, beginning to work on the bonds keeping Sherlock in that uncomfortable position with his arms behind his back and knees bent. John stops when he feels light pressure and realizes a gun barrel is nestled against his right temple. Moriarty..

That is when he hears his own deep breathing. John tightens a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in comfort, looking up at the beaming smile of Jim Moriarty.

“Are you happy? That I did this..” Jim waves down to the detective using the gleaming weapon. “He didn't want you to know.”

“Of course he wants me to know he's alive..” John beings, shaking his head and looking down at Sherlock, barely muttering with clear fondness, “Git.”  
  
“No. He's been on his own since we 'died',” The word is said like he is teasing, and in a way he is. “I only just captured him, to bring to you.”

John looks down at Sherlock in pain, but he cannot be sure. “He wouldn't..” The words are left unsaid, enough came from his mouth to cause Sherlock's eyes to look away from John. Though disappointed that the man would let him be in anguish – let him believe he was dead – John still tries to work the knots free when the mouth of Jim's gun presses in, reminding him to stop.

Then he realizes what Jim Moriarty had said, looking from one genius to the other with a strange incomprehension. “You.. what?”

“I brought him back for you!” Jim cries out as if physically hurt by John, the nefarious enemy that had plagued Sherlock and John now pouting down at the pair of them. The fact that he had also taken Sherlock away for John seems inconsequential in this moment, making the detective roll his eyes.  
  
“Why?” John says after a long silent pause that he uses to try processing out what the hell is going on. He expected to come home, watch some mind numbing television, and go to sleep early for tomorrow's shift, not to walk in and juggle mind boggling situations like this.

Jim's eyes actually soften at him, of all the things John expected in response he did not see that coming. He cannot understand what the Irishman's angle is.

“John, I want you to be happy.” Jim murmurs with faint imploring in his voice. “That's why I've done this for you, and sent you flowers, and messages.” The gun starts lowering away from John as Jim begins to confess, taking on a staged shyness as he tells John of his affections in, well, his own way.  
  
“Y-you?” The militant man has never felt so entirely aghast, and he has seen true terrors. As a Doctor, he has seen emotional destruction as one life flickering out dims all those around it. He has seen the worst kind of war – men dying not from bullets, but disease that he could not fight, dying thousands of miles from home. John has seen many horrors, but nothing surprises him and makes his stomach quiver as much as this...  
  
John has gotten some flowers, and a few strange classically sounding messages stating that 'he' was alive. Of course, John always assumed that 'he' meant Sherlock.. Instead now he knows they were all from Jim Moriarty.

It could not get any weirder than this. He looks down and, after a quick glance to be sure Moriarty's gun is no longer parallel to his head, wrests the gag off Sherlock. “Those weren't from you?”

“Of course not, John.” Sherlock scowls and John feels so much relief at hearing that elegant low voice again that he does not care the tiny sting deep in his heart brought on by Sherlock's words; Jim was being honest after all, Sherlock had not felt fit to tell him he was alive.  
  
But Moriarty had.

Alright, scratch that, he _is_ starting to feel a great deal weirder. John sums up courage from heretofore unseen depths and forces himself to work on Sherlock's restraints, getting his arms free with diligent but clumsy ministrations.  
  
“I told you I was alive because your feelings matter to _me._ ” The archenemy lounging in his home perches on the edge of their leather chair. “Now that I've given you Sherlock back..” The blatant pleasure in Jim's voice ascends the longer his sentence goes on, “You ought to give me a reward. A chance to prove myself.”

“Prove your insanity.” Murmurs Sherlock, who is trying to quickly massage the feeling back into his ankles, but his hands are awkward and cumbersome from their own lack of feeling.  
  
“Shut up, Sherlock.” Snaps Moriarty with a singe-inducing glare before he turns a much kindlier face to John. “You are a noble man John, and now that your impediment is put aside you'll realize I deserve a chance.”  
  
“This is madness. John, where is your gun?” Sherlock sounds reproachful that the weapon has not been drawn already. It would have been, if John had had it on him but unfortunately he did not.

Jim tuts Sherlock quickly, “It's basic etiquette, something you'd know nothing about. Do stay out of it.” His eyes sharpen on John's doubtful gaze. “I brought you back your life, John.”

The man in question stares flabbergast, because logically it makes sense – he owes Jim that much... but the rest of him is screaming over what has happened. He continues to stare at them with a blank overwhelmed look that silences the room for several moments. John looks from Sherlock, who is slowly getting up off the floor now that enough blood flow has returned to his extremities, to Jim who stares with a psychotic look of unabashed affection. In that moment John finds himself repeating what has just happened.

Those flowers pressed in a book upstairs are not from Sherlock – but Jim.

The cards with promises of returning are not from Sherlock – but Jim.

Every time he has felt relief it was from Jim – not Sherlock.

Now the only reason Sherlock is there in front of him, making his heart feel complete and achingly whole for the first time in years, is because Jim Moriarty willed it to be so. Jim Moriarty watched and saw his pain, and acted on it. As much as he cannot believe himself it is befitting the peculiar events that he slowly nods to Jim, “What do you want?”  
  
“A date.” The words spring out of his mouth like a startled hare. Jim's eyes bug with glee as John nods and murmurs agreeably. Jim had thought Sherlock was an impediment, but in reality he was the doorway to John's heart...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeking Beta - please send message to my Tumblr, include AIM username, if interested!


	7. New Foundation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock Wing!lock prompt: Onlyaneggwhiskandapogostick;"Sherlock is John's guardian angel. When something really bad happens to John, Sherlock is forced to reveal his true form. Johnlock"
> 
> (Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: Suicide theme, suicide attempt, angels and angst)

Angels may be all around us, but they never interfere. To them the order of the universe is a fixed thing that exists beyond the good of the individual – some people will die unjustly, some will be a part of miracles, and others will live on the edge of both. It is not for them to decide which is which, and so they do not get involved. At least, not often.  
  
John Watson had been to war and seen nothing supernatural in the thick of combat. He had watched his weak family dynamic splinter and no fairy godmother came to put the pieces back together. Life simply took him for a good ride, and John rose magnificently to the occasion with his noble nature.  
  
At least in action he did, for John's heart still remained haunted by his past. In the night he would awaken, freezing yet covered in sweat. Usually he would be panting, but if he was not he grew afraid that he must have woken up screaming. Fear would be the only emotion rocketing through him, spiking adrenalin as he thrashed before waking, and then the emotion exploded.  
  
Nights became a difficult time for John, and one night it became too much..

John Watson stood on the edge of the ledge in the tiny ramshackled apartment that he lived in, not able to afford anything better within London. He thought being in a big city might help. Instead his loneliness felt more pronounced the longer he stayed in London, making John realize that a crowd only makes him feel more lost than ever.  
  
His anxiety is as violently passionate as if the explosion he dreamed of had been real. Memories of lost comrades plagued him. John shifts his feet upon the edge, looking down the several story drop and wondering if it would be enough. Guilt he thought he packed up resurfaced like an ugly scar fading back into view.

A soft breeze moved past his face, almost like a cold caress. John closes his eyes and thinks of what it would be like – frightening at first, but then he hoped for peace. If it was quick.. Scanning the ground he struggled to recall how many flights a building would need. To John five seemed to be cutting it close.  
  
Then again, how many men had he watched die without knowing it, let alone having a choice? John takes a breath and nods as a humorous brunette and a dark haired stoic come to mind – both taken too soon, and he was left behind. No, they had no say.  
  
No point in being posh about death. John thought he might steel himself, maybe prepare, but all he feels is misery eating him away inside. All he wants is to make it stop, so he takes that first and only step..  
  
And something catches him.  
  
John expected the ground to be hard and to knock his lights out, instead it feels warm, soft, and.. woolly. He knows before opening his eyes that he has fallen into a person – it felt like no time at all, but there was no one there – it was a straight drop to the ground outside his apartment window.  
  
Prying open one brown eye he finds his expectations proven right – all he can see is a coarse woolen coat the color of a storm cloud. John squirms a little in the stranger's arms and realizes he is hanging there in them – his feet have nowhere to go, with gravity and the body against him all he feels.  
  
 _Now you want to live.._ Thinks the figure holding him, sarcastic and irate even in his mind... Sherlock Holmes has been at his normal duties when he found John about to jump. Assuming it was more of his charge's depression he prepares to ignore it, until John actually jumps.  
  
As a guardian angel he knew his charges. Not their every move, but enough to know their general life path including possible deaths. Sherlock knows that John Watson is not meant to die tonight so when he saw the man jump he acted without thinking, saving John.  
  
Slowly Sherlock's great feathered appendages lowered them to the ground, giving him time to look over the frightened man in his arms. He had never held a mortal before, but they felt like angels albeit a bit warmer.  
  
John could only pull back from the chest to chest hold when Sherlock set them on the ground, and it us then that he becomes floored by what he sees – magnificent snowy white wings, at least a yard long for each and they do not seem to be fully extended. The man's long coat is stylish, but nothing compared to the supernatural addition.  
  
John clears his throat, finding a harrumph stuck in him as he tries to get his mind functioning again. “What the bloody hell am I looking at?” He asks softly, awed more than afraid.  
  
There are rules for interactions with mortals and Sherlock follows them, bowing swiftly and relaying an air of old world charm. “Your guardian.”

“Guardian?” John questioned with disbelief until he groaned as he believed he knows what has happened, “Oh, I didn't jump. I've just gone mad.”  
  
“You're not mad.” Sherlock replies with an even, patient voice. Always behave with mortals and curry to their needs – it was in the handbook.  
  
“I am. I've gone balmy..” John bemoaned his fate, shaking his head. He pictured himself standing outside his apartment, talking to thin air instead of this winged-man-thing in front of him. John is too busy thinking his mind has gone to notice the unique air of beauty about his guardian.  
  
Sherlock maintains his calm, though to be honest this is his first mortal encounter. Up until now he has worked from afar, as most do, and he is already finding John a bit trying. Still, he continues a mask of aloof protection. “I merely interjected because your death is not yet due.”  
  
“You're a figment of my imagination and if I close my eyes you'll be gone.” John murmurs, keeping his voice down in case he is being overheard. He takes in a deep breath while closing his eyes, counts silently to five, and then opens them.  
  
Sherlock is still standing there, all pale skin, cheekbones, and feathers. He looks expectantly to John now that the little mortal magic trick has failed, but John only gapes at him and reaches out, poking Sherlock in the chest. He certainly felt real..  
  
The bright eyed angel is a gorgeous creature whose beauty is beyond earthly abilities to match in humankind. Except, perhaps, if Michaelangelo sculpted his pale features out of marble, then perhaps Sherlock could indeed be earthen.

“I am your guardian angel and you are not meant to die.” Sherlock lays out the facts mercilessly. Biting back an infinitesimal frown he looks upon the military doctor with intrigue in his eyes. “I could cure your limp, would that be a start, John?”

Hearing a stranger say his name makes him jump a little. Still feeling unsettled he cannot help but nod, “Alright. Just to prove you are.. whatever you are.”  
  
John expected a wave of hands, some Hollywood smoke, and whispered magical words. Instead Sherlock opens his coat and feels around the inside pocket, and in the most under dramatic move hands John a tiny vial of clear liquid.  
  
“So you're a 'guardian' drug pusher?” John asks, befuddled but trying to hit on Sherlock. He does not know of any clear liquid drugs like this but stranger things are out there in the modern world – and an angel seems far less believable than a new invention by a motivated black market.  
  
“It's holy water, John.” If this is how mortal encounters go then Sherlock would be fine to do without another – he finds his charge to be so ignorant even if he is still one of the better ones Sherlock as resided over.  
  
“Of course.” Replies the skeptical doctor who takes the vial and uncorks it, sniffing and finding it odorless. He dabs the pad of his finger on the top and puts it to his lips – tasteless.  
  
Looking at Sherlock he feels intimidated, but still feels that he could trust this stranger. If he had imagined Sherlock that would make sense – his mind conjuring something trustworthy – but the longer they spoke the more real it felt. Unsure, yet sensing that Sherlock would not hurt him, John lifts the vial to his mouth.  
  
Oddly enough he did feel better as soon as the tasteless liquid hit his lips. He has expected something smoother, maybe even creamy, but instead it goes down just like water. With a few butterflies careening within him he takes a cautious step. Then another. His bad leg does not weight him down.. Amazed, he turns to Sherlock. “C-come inside..”

John hurries him in and up to his home, taking the elevator and finding it awkward riding up with Sherlock's right wing behind him. He tries not to stare at it, but the immortal knows he is.  
  
As soon as they walk into John's flat the angel behind him points out in an elegant flurry of speech, “That was regular water. Holy water doesn't exist – it's a concept you mortals made up. I merely wanted to prove that your limp is psychosomatic.”

“W-what?” John turns toward him and laughs, shaking his head. “Sorry, I thought you said that was...?”  
  
“I did.” Points out the creature with an air of superior wisdom that cracks his polite forced mask. “Your limp is in your mind, as is the rest of your trouble, John Watson.” Sherlock furls his wings, the lengthy expanses taking up less space until he could sit down on John's sofa without discomfort.  
  
“Who the hell are you to say so?” John colors a faint red when he realizes that he has been tricked, but the placebo effect the plain water had on him proved his limp beyond a shadow of a doubt. John knew he could be alright now, still, being tricked is never pleasant, let alone by a winged stranger.

Now this is more interesting.. Sherlock adores observing the mortals as he goes about his duties, but interaction is slowly becoming appealing the less he follows the rules and listens to his own mind. “I've seen why you have it. Of course I know.”

Begrudgingly, the man starts to walk into the kitchen to make tea before realizing that he has no idea if Sherlock eats – let alone takes tea. He backtracks to the living room once his polite automaticity wore off.  
  
Watching Sherlock as if he may disappear at any moment, John carefully sinks down into the plush couch beside him. “The problem is after what I've seen I can't escape feeling this way. Not alone..”  
  
John shakes his head and looks to Sherlock in awe. Maybe he really is an angel. Maybe John has just taken a great leap off the deep end. No matter what the reason is, Sherlock is now someone to talk to without censorship and John finally opens up.  
  
“I guess I don't know what you're like – but humans aren't meant to be alone.” This entire conversation is awkward yet within the anxiety bubbles John feels as if he may finally be getting something off his chest. “I don't think I can go on berating myself for not living enough, while I can barely drag myself out of bed. Isn't Heaven or whatever peaceful? Wouldn't I be happier there?”  
  
“Being at peace is not being alive.” Sherlock finally lets out a small frown at John's ideas. They seem like childish fantasy, and yet his hope has a certain allure to it. “If you die you will never feel as you do now.”  
  
“What's there left to feel?” John mutters, voice downcast, as the light at the end of the tunnel is too far and too dim for him to reach for.  
  
Sherlock considers the question and tries to think of a response that John would concisely understand. He is, after all, merely a mortal, even if Sherlock does consider him to be one of the better of his species.  
  
Ah, actions – humans always worked with actions. Sherlock is hit with the idea and decides that, among his choices, taking his first mortal kiss with John is the perfect one. He turns his head and cups the human's cheek, turning John's head gently.  
  
Instead of staring at the floor he is slowly brought to look into the face of his handsome guardian angel. The taller man with strong ethereal wings leans in and John's heart skips a beat as the angel brings his cupid's bow down on John.

Whether an arrow hit is anyone's guess, but one would think so a moment later as John quickly grabs hold of that strangely attired celestial creature's arm and pulls him closer, deepening the mingling of their lips from a gentle spark into a fire.


	8. John's Preference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock/Johniarty prompt for: Bonjo-llygood  
> In this, both Jim and Sherlock have affections for John, but John can't decide. Both competitors try to be romantic (of course, both, as we know, might have a difficulty) Maybe at the end you can lean towards your choice of shipping
> 
> Beta'd by - take-it-away-ernie
> 
> (Rating: Teen  
> Warnings: none)

For John H. Watson lately daily life has become a project.  
  
The fact of the matter is both James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes have feelings for him. Though conceiving of the two mad geniuses lusting after him, plain old John, is about as easy as wrapping his mind around an obtuse angle, John has come to terms with it.

Initially John simply thought the two war-waging geniuses, who use the world as their battlefield, had found another plaything to skirmish over... Then time passed and both persisted rather relentlessly. John would find himself irritated by Sherlock's little gestures and head out of the flat, only to be confronted by an enamored Moriarty on the street.

That had startled him at first – Moriarty, beckoning him forward with ridiculously large bouquets of roses almost every time. Slick backed hair and wide stretched grin seeming to await John on every street corner he turned.. James had been sending not-so-little presents for weeks, like expensive cuff links and cashmere jumpers. The Irishman had always signed his cards formally as James, so John had mentally begun thinking of him as such...  
  
Sherlock's gestures were much more subtle. John had picked up on it slowly, not realizing until after Sherlock had had breakfast with him, more than once, early...

_John makes his way down slowly that morning and prepares some tea and toast. It is a simple breakfast fare that they usually have on hand. A fairly normal morning, all things considered. Given his recent late nights – swapping a week's worth of night shifts with a worker whose child has a lengthy staying virus – John awakens late in the morning and stays in his pajamas longer than usual._  
  
 _Sherlock appears with a steady brilliance to his eyes, like some supernatural wonder that is unphased by something as trivially mortal as the time of day. He gracefully saddles into the room, and skirts behind John to check on the progress of an experiment before sitting down across from the worn doctor. The detective is barely decent, with his dressing gown on and his hair disheveled into a wild state of curlicue magnificence, but he looks strangely terrific and natural._  
  
 _“Morning John.” Sherlock says crisply, almost as he might do if he were mocking or pacifying John, yet his voice completely lacks that edging patronization. Something is slightly off in all this.._  
  
 _“Morning.” The heavier of the two tries to sound less apprehensive than he is, a bit tired and confused that perhaps he might be dreaming. He lays jam over a slice while shrugging off the sudden feeling of oddity, but John cannot shake it completely._

_The jar John uses is nearly to the bottom, so he rises to fetch another. Luckily he went down for a shop the day before, and one is waiting. John pauses while he is up to get more milk, and that is when he notices – no body parts in the refrigerator. He turns and takes stock of the slightly neater kitchen._  
  
 _No eyeballs or blood, nothing of gore within the place. Sherlock has kept the fungi, but even in his own head John could hear the man going 'experiment, John.' Still, their kitchen looks slightly tidier – notes abounding but now in several skewed piles instead of hither and thither throughout the kitchen. Now John realizes that the discomfort is from a change he could not consciously perceive._  
  
 _“Sherlock, why is the flat neater?” John asks as he turns to his flatmate with a jam jar in one hand and milk in the other._  
  
 _“Neater?” Sherlock repeats him with superficial simplicity, refilling John's cup of tea. Then he puts down the teapot, and picks up and opens a newspaper with a flourish that would do a stage show proud. “I've done some organization if that's what you mean.” The low voiced detective replies airily while tuning John out to jump on seeking cases through the papers._

_With a yawn John settles into the opposing chair and leaves it at that._

* * *

 

  
 _Nine hours later John is filling in on the evening shift. He makes rounds to visit patients who are having a rough night. He moves from room to room, marking off those he visits on a clipboard. Some are sleeping when Doctor Watson checks in. Others are not so lucky._

_As he moves along in his work a few thoughts of his day pop through his head, as happens to any person over the course of the day. His mind churned out a thought about breakfast, and John suddenly thought – strange, Sherlock getting up at all hours for breakfast. He's there when I am._

_The end of the sentence is what struck him, and only then did John add that to the pile of oddities. His heart hammered in his chest as he recalled coming back to the table that morning to find his cup filled, thinking he must have been so dozy he refilled it before he got up. Now he is not so sure._

_John noticed that the flat has gotten a little neater (alright the fungi stayed, but there are no body parts) and Sherlock has started waking up early to sit with John for breakfast. This is rather telling though, as Sherlock rarely ate. He merely stayed there, with John.  
_

_John realizes he is gripping his pen so tightly that the plastic has dented. He unclenches his fist and breathes to steady himself. This might have slipped past if Moriarty had not already started 'courting' him beforehand. Now John is primed to notice romance, and it seems Moriarty triggered something in his flatmate..._  
  
That was why, even with all Moriarty's charm and bizarre intrigue, John had deferred to Sherlock and ignored James... Not at first, not until the flat was cleared up, and Sherlock lingered around him like a vampire trapped during daylight hours.

In the end though, John would always go to the quieter heart, because though less extravagant than James' offering, Sherlock was the one who John could always be himself with.

Sherlock was the one who he wanted to spend a lifetime figuring out, and even with that long John was not sure it was plausible.

John chose Sherlock, not James.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Just an FYI for senders (so you know I got your messages) - Prompts I've received and have not yet written: Jimlock AU from M'darling, Puppet Moriarty prompt, Jimlock dinner date, Blackwood and Teen/Greaserlock AU.  
> Have an idea? Want me to write your prompt? [Prompt info](http://jimlockian.tumblr.com/prompt) and my [Ask Box, send prompts here](http://jimlockian.tumblr.com/ask) (you don't need a tumblr to send a prompt).


End file.
